


Tornado

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chester is like a tornado – unpredictable and destructive in every sense of the word and, when he is admitted to hospital in 2003, you realise just how true that is</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tornado

1.

Chester is like a tornado – unpredictable and destructive in every sense of the word.

Mike helps Chester out of hospital to where you wait at the car. As they draw closer you suck in a breath at the skeleton walking alongside the emcee. Chester was always lithe, rock star slim and beautiful. Now he was skinny. Sickly. Pale. And it was terrifying to see. Not that you haven’t seen the singer sick before, God knows it was a regular enough occurrence but now...

And Chester, he’s singing that Tool song. Ticks and Leeches. He’s singing “Fat little parasite. Suck me dry.”

You stare at them blankly and Mike worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “Chester...”

“My blood is bruised and borrowed, you thieving bastards,” Chester sings softly. He looks up at your expression and his face falls. Glances at Mike and sighs, “Don’t you get it?” He says, “I had stomach parasites? And the song is about...”

I get it, you say, don’t you think it’s in poor taste?

Chester always wears his heart on his sleeve and you feel so fucking guilty when his face crumples, blanks and he says “It’s just a joke. Major surgery...I just wanted to...”

“I know.”

2.

Mike drives you both home, helps you walk Chester inside and get him settled on the fold out couch (which you went and bought; couldn’t bear the thought of him traipsing up and down the stairs still post-op) before he pulls you to the door.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine, Mike, don’t fret.”

He looks at you strangely. He’s never been big on you and Chester, always hangs around on the side lines willing to pick up the pieces if necessary. But you keep telling him you’re fine, too stubborn to admit that Chester is a lot more to handle than you’d originally thought.

He’d said “Brad,” and you’d looked up from your breakfast and he’d said “my insides hurt.”

You’d laughed, because he pulled a face and pretended to choke and die, right there on the kitchen floor. So you gave him mouth to mouth. Then you had sex and you ended up completely forgetting about the pain he was in.

It got worse. Or so he told you. And fuck, you really should have paid attention. You didn’t because he’d make a joke of it and reassure you he’d be okay. “I’ll be fine. I’m probably just pregnant.”

Then you woke up alone in bed and Chester was unconscious on the bathroom floor, wouldn’t wake up no matter how hard you tried. You’ve never dialled 911 so fast in your whole life.

“They think it’s a tumour,” you told the others, shakily, when they went to visit, “in his god damn brain.”

It turned out to be parasites. And Chester made jokes about bad sushi and his poor personal hygiene (which was a laugh considering he cleanses to the point of obsessive-compulsive disorder) and everyone smiled sympathetically because you could see in his eyes how terrified he was.

As you make your way to the couch where he’s sleeping soundly under the sheet you laid out for him you find yourself humming ‘Ticks and Leeches’. You catch yourself, falter, but go right back on humming. Anything to fill the silence between you and Chester’s soft breathing.

3.

You sleep together on the fold-out couch, huddled close together as the TV you left on bursts into angry static, hissing and colouring everything black and white. It’s probably about five in the morning but you’re not sure because Chester never set the clocks when the time changed and when he collapsed you didn’t have the energy to do…anything.

Chester stirs beside you, buries his face in your neck for a moment before pushing himself up and walking over to the TV.

“You’re supposed to resting.”

“Well you weren’t going to turn it off, were you?” He mumbles tiredly, making his way back over to the couch. “You’re so fucking lazy.” Yeah. You are. But he kisses you anyway.

His lips kiss a trail from your lips to your neck where he grazes his teeth across your skin and you murmur “We can’t...you have to...”

“Fuck bed rest.” Chester growls and rolls his hips into yours.

And you...give in. Like you always do.

4.

One day you wake up alone and you’re instantly back in the bedroom and he’s half-dead on the bathroom floor. But then you blink and he’s dancing around in front of you, Ipod clasped in one hand, the other waving free above his head.

You wonder what he’s listening to. You want to let him know you’re awake, watching. You feel like you’re intruding on something secret, like you shouldn’t be seeing this. But the image makes your heart soar.

Chester never ceases to amaze you. Everything about him hits you like a fucking tornado. Blows you away; catches you unaware. He shouldn’t be doing this – he should still be in pain. But here he is – dancing like nobody’s watching.

You close your eyes when he spins round to continue his dance facing you. And, later, when you wake up to him running a hand through your hair, you don’t tell him you were watching.

Some things, you think, are left unsaid. So you sit up and kiss him softly.

He says “Brad?” and you rest your head on his shoulder, nuzzle his neck as he says “My insides hurt.”

You push him back against the couch (gently) kiss him, steal the words from his mouth. You say “Don’t scare me like that any more, please,” you beg him “please don’t...”

And Chester says, “I won’t.”

But he isn’t fooling either of you.


End file.
